Previously: Madeline/Samuel our narrator has just had an ethereal experience. Some of the harp players she knows in the 21st century are playing 16th century harps.

******* 

I know what I have to do. I don’t know why I haven’t dowsed about confirming my gut feelings before. I’ve consistently searched out evidence. I guess I’ve been taken up with too many incidents of drama in this medieval monastery. I will use the long heavy string of beads on my rosary to dowse. The crucifix at the end will give proper weight to complete the pendulum. A pendulum is anything that swings and this will do just right.  

I will also send a peaceful healing energy message to these, my 16th century friends. I will dowse about this mystery of identity and location. I will find to what degree I am accurate in my identifying my 21st century friends in this, the 16th century.

Settled into a quiet place during one of our stingy rest periods, I ready myself to dowse. As planned, I want to verify the situation, as it is unfolding, regarding who is who in this monastery. However, I find myself being drawn to dowse about something more compelling. 

There are two monks who always sit next to Abbot Richard at the head of the table. Last evening, one of them, named Brother Roger, was missing. I was quite sure this was not a Zachary situation, reminiscent of a brother named Zachary who must have done something taboo. He simply disappeared and was never spoken of again. 

Unlike Zachary, Brother Roger’s setting at table remains. I detect clues that something else is afoot. As many know, I am easily distracted, finding it difficult to focus. However, my big browns could not unfasten from the spectacle of Brother Richard’s fidgeting upon his bench. In an attempt to distract him from whatever is troubling him, he grants a free day with the magic Latin phrase  “Benedicamus Domino.” 

We answer uninformed and mindlessly, “Deo Gratius”, followed by applauding and hoopla-ing. We will be able to talk the entire day without garnering a penance. 

Though many are preoccupied with the sudden, surprising free day, I’m fixated on studying Brother Richard’s intense exchange with his buddy, Brother John. 

Both appear stiff and uncomfortable, glancing around the room, frequently checking over their shoulders. What are they anticipating or fearing will happen? 

That’s what I want to dowse about, but I don’t know where to begin. If or when Brother Roger returns, maybe Abbot Richard will relax. For now, he keeps rubbing his forehead as if he has one splitting migraine. 

He taps his fingers, then raps his knuckles on the table as he routinely swivels his head with darting eyes. I’ve never seen this level of vulnerability in the Abbot. Hopefully, more will be revealed.

I move into our gathering room to see how everyone is doing. I take Sylvester, who does the financial bookkeeping, aside. He might have a more precise clue as to what sort of trouble is simmering.

When he finishes his explanation, I realize this place is a house of cards. A bad powerful storm will collapse it. He reveals how we have become a ‘prayer factory’ for the rich. We have become corrupt. What an ironic cautionary tale. It goes much deeper or should I say, much higher.

Sylvester has learned the  Holy Pope is a ruler with an army. This life is packed full of ironies. Both he and King Henry the VIII want to close this monastery, actually all monasteries. I’d like to think of Henry the VIII fondly, as I remember Herman’s Hermits’ recording. 

In high school, in the 20th century, I played it repeatedly on my 45 or to be more precise, my seven-inch 45 rpm vinyl record.  Even though one of my favorite English rock groups sang it, I will probably never want to listen to it again, even though, I’m sure I could find it online. Henry VIII has toppled from the pedestal I had him on. 

The Pope, with whom I am unfamiliar, is down there in my mind’s eye groveling on the ground too. Things are not looking good. I give a glimpse back toward Sylvester. As I am walking back toward our section, the giant wooden knocker is slammed several times against the front door. Among all of the indelibles within my brain, the  countenance and dishevelled condition of Brother Roger will remain ingrained. His robe was torn and muddied with stains of blood on his shredded sleeve. The most obvious source of the darkened brown splotches was his nose. 

When he turned just right, I spotted a tear lined with reddish-brown near where his knee would land if thrown to the ground. With eyebrows knitted tight, I ponder what could have happened? 

I am hoping there will be another break of protocol when Brother Richard substitutes in place of our described duties for the day, some sort of explanation, jagged as it may be, so we will be fairly and soundly apprised of what is coming next.

The drama escalates as Abbot Richard and Brother John catch Brother Roger just as he is about to collapse to the stone floor.  Ow, that would hurt. There is some visceral pain, just imagining how that would rack his already battered body. With their support, he hobbles and ghosts into the Abbot’s hostel or office.